


Silence

by pyromanicofthesea



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, a million and seven time skips, old fic from my abandoned tumblr, sassy Alfred gives me life, someone dies but I won't say who, you'll have to determine that one for yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11620941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyromanicofthesea/pseuds/pyromanicofthesea
Summary: Nothing could prepare either of them for what would happen in the end.





	Silence

“I can’t do this, this is too much.”  
There was a loud crack.  
“You can do this. You were meant to do this.”  
The rain crashed down in sheets.  
“This is too much!”  
Sirens wailed, approaching.  
“Do it!”  
There was a bang, and then there was silence.

-Three weeks earlier -

“Bruce where the fuck are my pants?” An angered clown stormed the hall. A pantless angered clown, to be more specific. Bruce Wayne looked up from his newspaper. He was seated in a recliner, in the living room just beyond the base of the stairs. When the Joker reached the above floor’s railing, Bruce another demand for pants. The billionaire shrugged, and resumed his morning ritual of reading the tabloids. Joker, consequently, was having none of that. He went down the stairs in a crashing manor, purposely slamming his bare feet onto the ground with every step for dramatic effect. Bruce sighed, and looked up again when the Joker was only inches from his face.  
“May I help you?” Bruce asked in his sweetest, fakest voice. The Joker glared.  
“My pants.” Bruce set his newspaper down without a word, revealing the bat lounge pants he had been donning. The Joker proceeded to, quite literally, rip the pants down Bruce’s legs and off of his body entirely. “Thank you,” was all that was given to the billionaire who was now sitting there in stark white underwear, at a minor loss of words. The Joker was up the stairs and out of sight before Alfred returned to the living room with morning coffee. The coffee was nearly dropped in the shock of the pantless man, who had not been so unfortunate only moments prior.

The next encounter with the clown had been during dinner. He had nearly crashed into the dining table.  
“So nice of you to join us, Master J,” Alfred said, his sarcasm stronger than ever. The Joker looked at Alfred almost sheepishly. The two both knew that Alfred was still not fond of the Joker, and the Joker knew Bruce was not fond of the two entering squabbles. Nevertheless, behave was something Joker just simply didn’t follow through with. The table could account for that, as it was only a few weeks old. The Joker had succeeded in crashing into it, and thoroughly breaking the poor table in the process. Alfred was furious, to say the least.  
“So nice of you to place another obstacle, Alfie,” Joker replied, his usual mocking jester tone thick in the silence that had once been dinner. Bruce gave the Joker a scolding glare. Joker merely flashed Bruce an innocent smile before the shit eating one he usually wore returned as the Joker’s attention turned to Alfred once more.  
“If that’ll be all, sir,” Alfred said, looking at the Joker but addressing Bruce. That had been all, as Bruce dismissed Alfred with an apologetic nod.

-one week later-  
Joker was gone. Bruce scoured the city in search of the Clown Prince. His Clown Prince of Crime. The Joker was nowhere to be found. It was as if he had vanished out of thin air. Bruce took out his anger - and his fear - on the unfortunate criminals caught by the Batman during those nights.  
“Tell me everything you know of the Joker’s whereabouts,” the Batman demanded as he gripped one of Joker’s old lackies by the coat lapels and slammed the man into the brick alley wall.  
“Last I heard Boss was holed up somewhere with that billionaire, Wayne!” the man against the wall said as he trembled. “Said he was going to use Wayne to lure the Batman or something like that, but that had been months ago. None of us have heard anything from the Boss since, i swear!” Bruce didn’t like the sound of this, as it meant not even his goons knew where Joker sprung off to.  
Bruce Wayne was nothing less than a quite large ball of panic after that encounter. Though this was not the first time the Joker had poofed away on some scheme, this was the first time that he had left no trace of his leave.  
The first disappearance was from Arkham, and he left the empty cell of a Doctor Harleen Quinzel as a note to Bruce - well, to the Batman - that he wasn’t out of the picture just yet. The second time, it had been the addition of eleven decks of cards, neatly stacked in rows in the middle of the foyer. That barricade of playing cards nearly took Alfred down in the dark. The third time, Bruce awoke in an empty bed with a cheshire grin stained into the satin sheets. The unsettling smile was depicted in ruby red, unglossy lip stain. It was quite the task for Alfred to remove. The other disappearances were treated in the same manor, and notified with similar ‘jokes’. And the Joker did have his fun, with splitting sides, upon his return.  
This disappearance was different. It felt different. It was portrayed differently, in the sense that were was no portrayal at all. It was as if the Joker had vanished, and Bruce was worried under his cowl.  
Alfred did his best to reassure the man that his clown would undoubtedly return.  
“Honestly sir, I’m to believe that the Joker will not be gone long,” Alfred would say as the days went by. “If there’s anything that man would never miss out on, it’s the chance to give me a heart attack.”

-one week after that-

A body was recovered near the outskirts of Gotham City. Disfigured, warped with pain and cuts and bruises and bullets. A Chelsea grin, carved into the decaying flesh of the corpse. It was put in pre-mortem no doubt. A playing card was lodged in the wound of the body’s slit throat; the card was a wild card. It was a joker.  
Three more bodies were found, encircling Gotham around the outer edge.

-five days later-

Bruce received a call, early into the morning. It was barely dawn, and yet he was greeted by a howling laugh through the receiver. His heart skipped, and then the laughing stopped. The voice grew grave, and his heart dropped.  
“Batman,” it was Joker. But he knew who Bruce was. The use of that name confused Bruce. Joker always called him something, like Bats or Brucie. Never just ‘Batman’. “Just listen. At the docks, the east harbour, there will be a remote. On it will be two buttons. Press none of the buttons, and a nuclear bomb will erase Gotham City. Press one of the buttons, and you will disarm the bomb. Press the other button, and you will erase Gotham City. You have three hours.”  
The line went dead. Bruce could feel his blood run frigid. Joker hadn’t pulled a stunt like this in years. Sure there were the robberies, the murders and the breakouts, and the crimes of the likeness. But Joker had never done something to this grand of scale since moving in. He had promised.

-three years earlier-

Joker had just been released. It was a cold August evening. Joker had been sentenced to life, three lifetimes over, and yet some simple tweaking and a few hundred grand transferred to one offshore bank account owned by one Edward Nygma lead to Joker’s on-record sentence being generously shortened.  
Joker knew where he was going, it really was only a matter of arriving there. Without a car, without any mode of transportation other than his feet, the Joker had quite the trek in front of him. But, that’s just what he set off on. By foot, Joker made his way down the road and in what he hoped was the direction of Wayne Manor.  
The manor had quite the courtyard. It was decorated in forestry and well kept hedges and floral arrangements and plant life if that sort. The groundskeeper must’ve had his work cut out for him. Joker arrived in the early afternoon of the following day. He was tired, rugged, and craved nothing more than the touch of his Batsy and a sandwich. His Batsy, however, was not in the mood for his games.  
“Joker, what the hell are you doing here?” Bruce demanded. He stepped outside, and he looked like hell. His hair was tossed in unruly waves and curls; the dark circles under his eyes rivaled the shadowy makeup around the Joker’s own eyes, and his overall stature reeked of I Am Not Well. Joker looked Bruce over, and met his eyes with a deep emotion.  
“I need you.”

Joker woke up in a warm bed and a dark room. Crawling out of bed, he made his way to the door. Upon opening it, light from the hallway flooded in and a realization set it. Bruce had taken him in. He had seen his weakened, pathetic form, and he granted him mercy. Joker nearly lept with joy. The manor seems to be desolate, as peculiar as that was. Such a large house and it felt as though the Joker was the only soul on the grounds.  
He investigated the upstairs, discovering most doors locked. He couldn’t blame Bruce much though. Even if the man hadn’t “Joker-proofed” the Batman-related areas, surely the Wayne half of the man had frequent parties. In fact, the Joker was well aware of the numerous people that frequented the Wayne Manor. It was only sensible that the doors were kept locked. Houseguests could be so nosey. Regardless, the Joker carried on his examination of the home.  
“You seem to be fit enough now.” Joker nearly jumped at the sound of Alfred’s voice. The words were delivered as deadpan as the butler always spoke. Joker said nothing, and Alfred kept his suspicion up. “Master Wayne will be home in an hour. Do try to occupy your time with less destructive methods than usual.” Alfred continued down the hall, not awaiting an answer from the Joker.  
Bruce came home to find Joker in the kitchen. Flour was everywhere, as were egg whites and butter. Whatever the Joker had been attempting to make, it had not turned out the way he intended. With a grumble, the Joker went to find the bathroom. He narrowly missed Bruce’s shoulder, but his eyes lit up when he was Bruce’s jacket.  
“Batsy, you’re home!” Bruce found himself covered in flour when the caked Joker draped himself over Bruce. The clown looked ecstatic to see the man. Bruce pushed the Joker off of him.  
“Joker I’ve got some questions you need to answer.” Joker crossed his arms, faking a pout.  
“Oh Bats, you’re always all work and no play.” Bruce rolled his eyes, but other than that he ignored the comment.  
“Just because your record at Arkham says you’re a free man doesn’t mean I trust you,” Bruce told the Joker. “Why are you here?”  
“Don’t you remember what I said last night?” the Joker looked almost hurt. “I need you, Batsy. I can’t live without you.”  
“You can’t keep coming here expecting me to let you in, just so that you’ve got some place to hide while you try to flatten the city.”  
“Bruce -”  
“No, Joker,” Bruce cut the man off before he could get out another word. “No, just because you know who I am doesn’t mean you get to control me. I don’t care anymore, I don’t care who knows. Protect Gotham, that’s my priority. And you, Joker, are still a threat.”  
“I promise, no more big schemes for me.” Joker’s voice was quiet. He was looking at the floor, completely out of character. It unnerved Bruce. It wasn’t normal and it wasn’t natural and the Joker was never meant to look so sheepish. “Just let me stay, Bats. I just want to stay here, with you.”

-three years, two days post-

The Joker was standing on the dock. He knew Batman would figure out everything. He knew his Batsy would understand.  
“I have one final command.” The voice behind the Joker was slow and thick. It was dark and deep and belonged to the shadows themselves. A gun was thrust against the Joker’s back, and the Joker felt his heart leap. Who would he get to kill this time? He hoped it to be a death that would rock the state, not just the city. After all, he was on a grand stage. The world was that stage, and he was the director meant to make the magic of theatre play out for the world. Even the supporting case has an expiration date; oh yes, they always do. And what better time than now to play the final card.  
“And that would be?” the Joker questioned, unable to contain the thrilling buzz he got from cutting down a life.  
“Kill Bruce Wayne.” That was the one person the Joker never wanted to cut down. “I want his company in ruins and his bloodline ended before a real Robin shows up.” No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. The Joker could never kill his Batsy. Not Batsy. Never Batsy. The Joker would beat him and bruise him and play much too rough with him. He would scar him and emotionally break him and bring harm to all of his friends. But the Joker would never kill his Batsy. He could never kill him. To end the Batman would be to end the Joker. It simply would not be done.  
A pull in the Joker’s mind caught his attention. That damn pull from that damn man. The Joker’s mouth moved without his instruction. His voice sounded on an accord that was not of his own.  
“It will be done.”

Bruce received a series of picture messages, all from the Joker, later that night. Separate they seemed meaningless, but Bruce knew better than that. The order must’ve meant something, though Joker rarely used this sort of puzzle as a clue. He had always been more of a bang type of guy. That had to be important. The subtly had to be important. When Bruce determined the meaning, he suited up and headed out in record time.

“Joker!” Batman stood behind the clown, appearing in the darkness like the wind. “What is the meaning of this?” When the Joker turned around, his cheeks were streaked with the trails of dried tears.  
“Batsy,” the Joker choked out. “My sweet Batsy.”  
“Don’t.” Batman was all but enraged by this antic. He was fully read to send the Joker back to Arkham, and out of his house, permanently.  
“Bats you don’t understand, you have to help me.” the Joker looked scared. It wasn’t a look that suited him. It wasn’t a look the Batman enjoyed seeing on him. “My mind is not my own. My actions, my choices, my movements, Batsy darling this isn’t me. I’m not me anymore.” Batman was utterly confused. Perplexed. It was a confounding statement for the Joker to be spouting, and this was in fact the Joker after all. He knew not what to say. The Joker was begging him with his eyes. This wasn’t the begging that Batman enjoyed. This was the begging Batman wanted to end. “Batsy, please,” the Joker’s voice cracked as he spoke. His arm rose, a gun in hand.  
“Joker-”  
“Stop me, Bats!” The tears began again. “Don’t let me hurt you. I don’t want this. Free me from this. I’m not me anymore.”  
“This isn’t how this ends. I can help you, come back to the manor with me.”  
“You have to end this, Bruce,” the Joker whispered. He pushed the gun against Batman’s gloved hand. Batman wouldn’t accept the gun, so Joker held the gun and the man’s hand. He brought the two up to the side of his head. The rain began to fall like the tears on the Joker’s face.  
“I can’t do this, this is too much.” Batman was trembling under his suit.  
There was a loud crack.  
“You can do this. You were meant to do this.” The Joker didn’t want anyone else to do this. He couldn’t hurt his Batsy. He didn’t want anyone to do this except his Batsy.  
The rain crashed down in sheets.  
“This is too much!”  
Sirens wailed, approaching.  
“Do it!”  
There was a bang, and then there was silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Confused now? Good, that was the point.


End file.
